


Wildflower

by HomewardBones



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Death, Emotions, F/M, I suck at tags, Lonliness, Sad, if you think i cried writing this no i didnt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:34:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29953497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HomewardBones/pseuds/HomewardBones
Summary: Based off of a prompt I was given in a SPN Discord server I'm in!





	Wildflower

"Good morning, sweetheart." Dean said mid yawn as he stretched his arms above his head, his hands balling into fists. Every morning was always the same, shower, coffee, shoot the shit, and then hunt. The roar of the Impala down long forgotten roads, dust trailing behind the worn tires, the rumble of the engine felt deep down in his bones. The familiar sound of the driver side door opening, and the metallic groan it let out, burned forever in his mind. 

Dean wasn't the type of man that would go out of his way to stop and smell the roses, it wasn't easy for him to find beauty in the little things. He was always too focus, too hardwired into the job, the hunt, the family business. Day, months, and years blurred, as did the things he saw. If you asked him what he hunted last week, he couldn't tell you.

The ringing of gun shots, the landing of punches, the Impala's door creaking, none of it stood out in his mind. He was becoming a husk of his former self. But that's how he dealt with his trauma, but it wasn't like dealing with a ghost. He couldn't just salt and burn the pain, and no amount of soul selling was going to bring any real joy. He tried to really convince himself that killing everything that crossed his path would finally bring him a shred, of something resembling happiness. 

Every night he silently prayed while looking up at the ceiling of what ever shitty motel he happened to find, begging, pleading, and cursing for someone to answer him. But of course, no one ever did.

It was the middle of summer, the air was dry and the sun was beaming brightly, not a cloud in sight as the Impala roared down a long dirt road. Music was blasting and Dean found him self nodding his head, and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. He caught a glimpse of himself in the rear view mirror with a tired glare. Shaking his head he focused his eyes back to the road, where deer grazed on the lush foliage along the sides. The Impala slowed to a stop gradually as the sound of crunching rocks let Dean know he was close to his destination. He slowed the car to a stop and parked his baby, running his hands over the steering wheel and letting out a soft sigh. 

The driver's side door creaked open, and a passing thought fluttered through Dean's mind, "Maybe I should oil this damn door." 

He paused for a moment, brows furrowed before shutting the door and beginning his walk down the rocky path. He could hear bird songs and the hot summer wind whipped around him, not offering any relief from the blaze above him, nor did the cloudless sky. Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead and neck as he trudged up the winding path to a tall metal gate rusted and covered in climbing vines. The gate was locked tight with a large ornate padlock, decorated with a single letter, "W". 

He pulled an old and tarnished key from the inside of his jacket pocket that was now very damp with sweat. and fumbled with putting it in the lock as his hands shook. He swallowed hard as the padlock dropped into his palm, allowing the gate to slowly open, ripping apart the vines that had completely intertwined through the two halves.

He stepped over the overgrown brush but some of the small thorns on the vines scraped at his jeans, nicking the skin underneath. Decaying foliage crunched under his boots as he continued his walk to a giant and incredibly old tree. Around the base of which wild flowers ran rampant, scattering the ground in beautiful hues of colors. Dean's hand idly brushed over the cracked bark of the tree, his fingers eventually found a pair of carved letters at least a decade old and barely legible but still hanging on.

His throat began to sting as he forced his eyes to look at the carved letters that branded this beautiful tree. Anger began to bubble in the pit of his stomach, and as did the tears that threatened to fall from his eyes. His head fell and tremors ripped through him quicker than he'd anticipated, making his knees buckle and dropping him to the ground in a heap. The wail that left him and echoed around him felt earth shattering as the tears fell freely onto the petals of the flowers beneath him. 

Dean's hands balled into fists digging into the dirt as all of his emotions poured from him all at once, freeing him from his emotional prison that he'd long locked him self in. 

Hours had slowly passed him by as he sat with his back to the tree, his head leaned back against the rough bark and his eyes closed, his mind was quiet as he prayed again. When he finished his prayer the hot summer wind cooled slightly and gently flowed around him and through the leaves above him, the sound similar to a whisper in his ears. He opened his eyes and let them drift to the rusted out shotgun that was shoved barrel first into the dirt. His fingers danced over the cracked wooden handle, and a faint smile formed on his lips as tears filled up his eyes once more.

"Good morning, Jo."


End file.
